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Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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be brast. At last I know what freedom meaneth. To be free is to be out of a job. Mayhap ye will allow me to guide ye out of ye cave on approval? Perchance, gin I give satisfaction, ye will then keep me in mind should an opening come up.”
Chapter 7
P ETER SHRUGGED AND TOOK hold of the little man’s hand. “Lead on, then. We can’t stay here. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Medrus, your druidity.”
“All right, Medrus. Come along, everybody. We’re moving out.”
The three others, numb from the witch’s brew they hadn’t had time to sleep off as well as from their incredible awakening, clasped hands in turn and stumbled along behind. It wasn’t very far to the real cave opening, perhaps a quarter of a mile, but it was tough going with no light whatever. Tim minded the trek most.
“Damn it, Medrus,” he grumbled, “can’t you even glimmer a little?”
Medrus couldn’t, but he did keep up his running patter like Emma Woodhouse’s neighbor, Miss Bates. “Prithee mind ye stalagmite here. Observe ye puddle.”
Tim was still feeling the damp in his bones, the horror of their narrow escape from the hag, and a hangover the like of which he hadn’t experienced since his late wife Jemima made him try her elderberry wine.
“How the hell do you expect us to observe what we can’t even see?” he snapped.
After that, Medrus maintained a hurt silence until at last they emerged into bright sunshine. Then he collapsed, writhing on the ground and screaming, “Aagh! ’Tis not to be borne.”
“Now what’s eating you?” Tim snarled.
“It’s the daylight,” said Peter. “God knows how long the poor bugger’s been crawling around inside that cave. He’ll need a while to adjust.”
“How long a while? Damn it, Pete, we can’t lollygag around here for the rest of our lives waiting for this pipsqueak’s eyeballs to settle down.”
“I myself would be content to lollygag awhile,” said Daniel Stott, propping himself against a conveniently situated beech tree. “We might employ the interval in cogitation upon which direction we ought to proceed in when we resume our march.”
“Straight to King Sfyn’s castle,” said Peter.
“But we can’t,” Torchyld howled. “We haven’t found ye griffin yet. Gin I go back there without old Ffyff, they list to hurl me from ye parapets and boil me in oil. Or boil me in oil and then hurl me from ye parapets. I forget ye protocol. I feel not well.”
“I’m tired myself,” Peter admitted. “It’s been a rough night. I move we find a good place to camp, and sack in for a while. Here, Medrus, sit up a minute. Let’s see what we can do about those eyes.”
He ripped a narrow strip off the hem of his still-sodden robe and bound it around the clerk’s forehead. Then he plucked a few short, leafy twigs and thrust them under the headband so that the leaves hung down to serve as a primitive visor.
“There, that ought to help a little. Try opening your eyes for just a second at a time, until you begin to feel comfortable.”
Medrus ventured a quick squint. “Gramercy, great and bountiful sir. Such munificence is astounding. Now gin I could only have some small morsel to eat. I have not tasted food since I entered ye cave with my liege, Lord Mochyn, in times agone, and I must say I begin to feel a trifle peckish.”
At the word “food,” Daniel Stott started up in alarm. “Dear me, this is indeed a parlous state of affairs. We are totally unprovisioned. Let us temporarily thrust aside our own discomforts and seek sustenance for this luckless wight. Medrus, would you settle temporarily for roots and berries in lieu of more substantial fare?”
“Marry, I would not,” grumbled Torchyld. “Up and to ye hunt. Who hath my sword?”
“Great Scott,” cried Peter, “haven’t you?”
“Would I be asking if I had?”
“Then it must still be back in the cave, drat it. Why in hell couldn’t you have hung on to it? Your sword was the only weapon
Chapter 7
P ETER SHRUGGED AND TOOK hold of the little man’s hand. “Lead on, then. We can’t stay here. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Medrus, your druidity.”
“All right, Medrus. Come along, everybody. We’re moving out.”
The three others, numb from the witch’s brew they hadn’t had time to sleep off as well as from their incredible awakening, clasped hands in turn and stumbled along behind. It wasn’t very far to the real cave opening, perhaps a quarter of a mile, but it was tough going with no light whatever. Tim minded the trek most.
“Damn it, Medrus,” he grumbled, “can’t you even glimmer a little?”
Medrus couldn’t, but he did keep up his running patter like Emma Woodhouse’s neighbor, Miss Bates. “Prithee mind ye stalagmite here. Observe ye puddle.”
Tim was still feeling the damp in his bones, the horror of their narrow escape from the hag, and a hangover the like of which he hadn’t experienced since his late wife Jemima made him try her elderberry wine.
“How the hell do you expect us to observe what we can’t even see?” he snapped.
After that, Medrus maintained a hurt silence until at last they emerged into bright sunshine. Then he collapsed, writhing on the ground and screaming, “Aagh! ’Tis not to be borne.”
“Now what’s eating you?” Tim snarled.
“It’s the daylight,” said Peter. “God knows how long the poor bugger’s been crawling around inside that cave. He’ll need a while to adjust.”
“How long a while? Damn it, Pete, we can’t lollygag around here for the rest of our lives waiting for this pipsqueak’s eyeballs to settle down.”
“I myself would be content to lollygag awhile,” said Daniel Stott, propping himself against a conveniently situated beech tree. “We might employ the interval in cogitation upon which direction we ought to proceed in when we resume our march.”
“Straight to King Sfyn’s castle,” said Peter.
“But we can’t,” Torchyld howled. “We haven’t found ye griffin yet. Gin I go back there without old Ffyff, they list to hurl me from ye parapets and boil me in oil. Or boil me in oil and then hurl me from ye parapets. I forget ye protocol. I feel not well.”
“I’m tired myself,” Peter admitted. “It’s been a rough night. I move we find a good place to camp, and sack in for a while. Here, Medrus, sit up a minute. Let’s see what we can do about those eyes.”
He ripped a narrow strip off the hem of his still-sodden robe and bound it around the clerk’s forehead. Then he plucked a few short, leafy twigs and thrust them under the headband so that the leaves hung down to serve as a primitive visor.
“There, that ought to help a little. Try opening your eyes for just a second at a time, until you begin to feel comfortable.”
Medrus ventured a quick squint. “Gramercy, great and bountiful sir. Such munificence is astounding. Now gin I could only have some small morsel to eat. I have not tasted food since I entered ye cave with my liege, Lord Mochyn, in times agone, and I must say I begin to feel a trifle peckish.”
At the word “food,” Daniel Stott started up in alarm. “Dear me, this is indeed a parlous state of affairs. We are totally unprovisioned. Let us temporarily thrust aside our own discomforts and seek sustenance for this luckless wight. Medrus, would you settle temporarily for roots and berries in lieu of more substantial fare?”
“Marry, I would not,” grumbled Torchyld. “Up and to ye hunt. Who hath my sword?”
“Great Scott,” cried Peter, “haven’t you?”
“Would I be asking if I had?”
“Then it must still be back in the cave, drat it. Why in hell couldn’t you have hung on to it? Your sword was the only weapon
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